


Flannel

by feyrelay



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 22:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17589854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: Even Peter's gargantuan crush on Mr. Stark can't keep him warm with how frigid FRIDAY keeps the lab. Things devolve from there.(A re-post of one of my Yule prompt fills; I've decided to host them separately to make them more accessible.)





	Flannel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blueportal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueportal/gifts).



> Content: Warning for the fact that Peter is underage, horny, and an emotionally manipulative little shit
> 
> Beta'd by [Sparcina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina), but all mistakes are still mine because I don't fuckin' listen.

Peter is so happy he’s staying at the compound for winter break. It’s nice to get out of the city and breathe fresh air, even if the place is empty as a tomb. He imagines this must be what Harry Potter felt like when he stayed at Grimmauld Place (fifth book is best book, fuck your Deathly Hallows feels, Ned).

Peter watches for the first couple of days as Tony slinks around his own house like an ex-convict and thinks,  _yeah_ , that about covers it. Sirius Black was a hot, coded-queer character that deserved better, and no one can change Peter’s mind about that.

And, okay, Peter’s not an idiot, he brought long-sleeves and a coat and all because everyone knows to subtract about 10 degrees on average when you go upstate, but apparently that’s not good enough for Albany in December, no matter how well Peter had assumed the compound would be heated. What he really needs is something to layer up with around the house, and Mr. Stark must think so too, because one day Pete’s shivering in the lab so badly, sleeves pulled down over his hands, that he can’t even solder properly and he just knows he’s going to short something important if he can’t stop shaking, and-

Tony’s flannel shirt settles over his shoulders and then strong, bare arms are encircling Peter’s as the older man delicately extricates the soldering gun and precision tools Peter’s been struggling with. He absently watches goosebumps rise in between strands of dark arm hair, and okay now is not the time to get hard or, like, faint. He needs to keep it together.

In Peter’s ear, Stark whispers, “Can’t afford sparks right now, kid, steady; there we go.”

Oh, he’s talking about the circuitry. Right.

“Th-thanks, Mr. Stark! I, uh, think the lab is a bit colder than upstairs.”

“Yeah, I keep it that way. It helps me think and keeps things… brisk,” the other man confirms as his eyebrow quirks at Peter’s chest. Stark has his arms crossed and,  _damn_ , what that does for his biceps…

For a second, he thinks Mr. Stark is looking at his nipples, which Peter is certain are hard as diamonds and making points against the fabric of his henley.

“You gonna warm up and wear that shirt, or just stand there and pretend like it’s a cape?” Stark says instead, gesturing to Peter’s torso.

 _Oh._  Duh. Peter adjusts the flannel and slips the sleeves on before buttoning it up. He can feel the quality of the fabric under his fingertips and knows he’ll warm up shortly. It smells spicy and clean, like Mr. Stark’s deodorant, and makes Peter feel mildly dizzy.

“What are  _you_  going to wear, sir?” he asks, distracted as he watches his mentor rub at his own temples before rummaging through the junk drawer for a spare set of glasses.

“Well, these, for starters,” the older man admits as he adjusts the heavy black frames, “…before my headache reaches karmic proportions. And also...” Stark trails off, heading toward Peter.

Peter stands stock still and wonders where this is going. He flinches minutely as his mentor practically rubs their chests together to reach past him, over the soldering bench, and onto an overhanging shelf.

Stark pulls back, but not enough, with a white lab coat in hand. He shrugs it on and flashes Peter a bright smile. “See, all better? I couldn’t wear plaid with these glasses anyway; I’m too old to be a hipster.”

Peter’s eyes are drawn along the clean, white edge of the man’s teeth and then up the side of his jaw. He reaches up and touches the man’s angular facial hair gently, but Stark still steps back as if burned.

“Yes, sir. I don’t think flannel, glasses,  _and_  designer scruff are allowed in trifecta outside of Portland.”

\---

Peter wears the shirt for the rest of the day, through lab time and through dinner, and by the time he’s ready to hit the hay, he doesn’t want to take it off. So, as he changes his jeans for thin, grey sweatpants, he doesn’t.

Okay, well, he does, just to get the henley underneath off, and then he intends to put it right back on, but Peter catches a flash of something out of the corner of his eye and investigates the shirt’s tag. It’s been written on in black ink, and the tag bears the initials A.S. It’s not the flowing script Tony uses to address envelopes and gifts, and it’s not the blocky scrawl he uses for clarity in lab notes either.

And why would a billionaire be labelling his own clothes in Sharpie anyway, when he doesn’t even go by Anthony for that matter?

Further scrutiny of the tag reveals that the garment was made in Czechoslovakia. Which. Huh.

Peter knows from school that Czechoslovakia split into two different countries in 1993, so that’s odd enough as it is, and even though he knows Tony attended multiple European boarding schools in his time, it’s still a weird place to get a shirt, and.  _Oh._

Peter looks again and admires the neat, round handwriting of the late Maria Stark. Oh,  _Tony._

Well, now he has to give the darned thing back, but before he does, Peter allows the warmth of the gesture to wash over him. He basks in it, shakes out the shirt, and notices for the first time the subtle signs of age that betray the garment for what it is. The style of the collar is a little wider and stiffer than is fashionable now, and the fabric has thinned at the elbows a bit. He remembers the snug, slim fit of the shirt as Mr. Stark had worn it this morning, over a thin tee, and is willing to bet that it was originally bought to fit loosely, at a time when boxier silhouettes had been in style.

Peter takes one last whiff of the cozy material before he has to return it, and gets lost for a moment in the scent of his crush and the fantasy that maybe he should have just kissed Mr. Stark when he was right there in front of him instead of touching his signature facial hair like a freak. Maybe the older man would have pressed Peter back into the soldering bench, not too hard. Maybe he would have maneuvered Pete’s legs apart to slip a thigh in between, gentle, always  _so_  gentle with both the science they worked on in the lab and with Peter, always.

He’s still breathing in that fantasy with the shirt crumpled to his face, eyes closed, when there’s a delicate, shocked cough in the doorway.

Oh, fuck. Peter didn’t even hear the door open. He also didn’t realize how hard his cock was, but, uh, that realization has definitely hit Mr. Stark, if the older man’s wide-eyed expression is anything to go by. For Peter’s part, he’s pretty sure he’s blushing from his hairline to… his other hairline.

“Um, I’m sorry, sir, I was just going to bring it back but I, uh…” Peter stammers.

“No, it’s, um… it’s my fault; I should’ve knocked-”

But Peter can’t stop himself from trying to explain further, “I wasn’t going to like, uh, jack off in it or anything, I know how special it must be, it’s just that your scent on it smells so good and I just-”

“Oh my god, kid, just hand me the shirt so I can go,  _fuck_ -” Stark guts out, eyes a little wild.

And Peter, spirits take him, loves the wrecked quality of the other man’s voice, and the way it forms, fast and uncontrolled, around the expletive and goes a little breathy at the end. His senses are dialed to about fifty right now and he knows he just let out a little tickling leak of pre-come. Peter watches from the corner, outside of his own body like this is a play he’s attending, as Mr. Stark’s eyes flick down to catch the darkening spot of grey edging closer to black at the front of his sweatpants. Nobody says a word for a moment, until…

“Shut the door, sir,” Peter says evenly.

“Right, right, I’ll just come back tomorrow-” Stark mutters.

“No, I meant… shut the door, with your back to it,” Peter corrects.

There’s a short beat of silence, so Peter does the next logical thing he can think of and tosses the flannel to Mr. Stark. It probably smells like Peter with him having worn it for most of the day. Then he shoves a hand into his pants and palms himself, hisses his pleasure through clenched teeth but keeps his eyes open to watch his mentor shut the bedroom door with a twist of his wrist before he leans back on it.

“S’your hand cold?” Tony asks, then thumps his head back on the wood as if he can’t believe himself.

Peter’s left hand reaches up to rub at the back of his own neck, and he catches the way Mr. Stark’s eyes track the movement of the pale limb and then trace down, catching on the sparse, dark hair of Peter’s armpit. Peter’s embarrassed at that as he answers, “Yeah, but it feels kinda nice. Makes me shiver.”

“Christ, you know I can’t do this, you’re  _fifteen_ ,” Stark starts, but Peter cuts in.

“You’re not doing anything, sir. I’m going through a challenging time, you know, having my first big gay crush and questioning things.”

“Not cool, Parker,” Stark retorts, but as lovely as Peter’s strokes are getting, he’s not distracted enough to miss the way the man’s eyes had closed on that ‘sir’.

“What’s not cool,  _sir_?” he tests again, and judges his hypothesis valid at the ragged breath he’s met with from the door. Experiment concluded, he sees no reason to keep his sweatpants pulled up any longer and shoves them down his thighs before continuing. “Are you going to walk out on me? Tell me it’s sinful, what I’m doing; or is there just something wrong, something broken, within me?”

Stark bangs his head back against the varnish of the heavy door again. “Manipulative  _brat_ , I swear-”

Peter bends his left knee and rests it on the narrow bed to lean with his left arm outstretched and braced against the smooth wall. He knows Mr. Stark would have put a bigger bed in his room, would give him anything probably, but had to have known Peter would prefer the familiar feeling of a single bed. Peter closes his eyes against the hot feeling such consideration for his needs brings him, well, that and the dirty slide of his fingers and thumb through the slick moisture gathering on his cock. Suddenly, he thinks about the possibility that maybe Mr. Stark picked a bed just big enough for one so that he’d never be tempted to try and fit two in it, and  _that_  thought starts a low whine in the back of Peter’s throat.

When he opens his eyes again, Peter’s hearing rushes back in too and he notices that Mr. Stark is breathing like he’s running a marathon and the man’s relaxed, black bootcut jeans still aren’t enough to hide the tent he’s pitching. He’s also gripping the door handle so hard his knuckles are white.

That, that’s hot as hell, the tortured restraint of it all. Peter knows all this isn’t exactly kosher and it floors him that Mr. Stark is still trying to protect Peter, trying to protect him from the man’s own desire even. All this, despite the fact that Peter’s not even interested in protecting himself; all he really wants is for the older man to come further into the room and help him, show him, teach him how to wring the highest level of pleasure from himself, and then maybe even let Peter practice what he’s learned on Mr. Stark himself.  _Fuck_ , but he won’t, Peter knows the other man won’t, even as he speeds up his strokes and flips his hand over to change the angle and to make his own thumb press into that special spot on the underside.  _Fuck_ , he thinks again, and then grunts at himself for sounding like a broken record.

Stark, obviously still watching, makes a choking noise at the door and Peter hears it even over the loud, slick sounds of his hand.

“So, you’re not going to leave me? Abandon me? Punish me for this?” Peter baits him, needling and testing the liminal emotional lines that might mark the proverbial boundary of… whatever this is.

“Do you want me to? Leave, that is,” Tony bites, voice rough.

Peter just looks at him, unimpressed. He wonders where all this false bravado is coming from, but figures he’s under the influence of adrenaline now as much as he ever is under the spider mask and it all slots together neatly in his mind. “No,” he says, just for clarity.

“Then, no. I won’t leave you,” the older man promises, having correctly read Peter’s face, but grateful for the words anyhow.

“Good,” Peter exhales at the words, before he sucks in another breath around his teeth sharply. The confirmation, the  _permission_ , from the other man is making the point of no return rise up in front of Peter rather rapidly. He looks up and holds his mentor’s gaze. “Tell me this is okay, tell me you like this, tell me I’m  _good_ -” Peter begs, grip tightening.

“Oh, you’re  _so_  good, so perfect, sweetheart,” Mr. Stark vows immediately, and he must tighten his own white-knuckled grip on the door even further as he leans heavily back against it, because Peter’s super-hearing picks up the  _snick_  of the lock falling into place.

It’s that, strangely, and not the praise (no matter how good) that really does it for Peter because it takes him straight back to the first time they met when Mr. Stark had locked his bedroom door behind him, at the old apartment, and Peter sees stars and comes in long, pearly lines over his fist and chest and bedspread. Holy shit.

He catches his breath and looks up at the other man, still pressed bodily against the door, and Peter finds his voice, manages, “Aren’t you going to come snuggle me, help me clean up?”

Stark pushes his glasses back up delicately with one hand, and presses the heel of the other hand into his crotch. He says, carefully, “That’s up to you, kid-”

And Peter almost interrupts to gasp his desires like a hail of bullets but is startled into silence when his mentor holds up a quelling hand.

“You’ve got two choices, Peter. Every man has his limits and, after that little performance, if you tell me it’s okay to come over there and lick you clean, lick you open, and fuck you so hard that you stay that way, then I absolutely will. But that will be the only time, because after that, I’m going to turn myself in to the police and probably go to prison for a long time for statutory rape. Do you understand?”

Peter nods, dazed, as he sits heavily on the edge of the bed.

“Tell me with words.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Peter confirms.

Mr. Stark take a careful, small step away from the door and pulls his immaculate, white tee over his head. He tosses the shirt to Peter to clean up with and settles the flannel over himself instead. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Peter sighs miserably, but he understands.

“Don’t look so glum. I’m assuming you’re taking the second option?” Tony asks.

“Of course,” Pete replies, “… just, if I’m off the team, can I please keep the suit? It’s, uh, kinda my whole reason for living and last time you took it, it really hurt, so-”

“Peter.”

He looks up to see Tony leaning in the now-open door frame, arms crossed again and perfectly white smile infinitely fond.

“The second option is, you and I wait patiently while we continue to get to know each other in a new context, do lots of crazy science together and take down bad guys, and if you still want an old man like me by the time you’re legal, then maybe we can build a real relationship from there,” he explains.

“Oh,” Peter says as gooseflesh rises on  _his_  arms this time.

“And I’m sorry about the suit, before,” Tony adds, “… I didn’t know you then, not really. Didn’t know how smart or how responsible you really are. Didn’t know how much it mattered to you.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark.”

“It’s really not, kid,” he replies, smile turning wry, but he levels his gaze at Peter’s face and sounds sincere when he adds, “… but I like this better, anyway. We have all the time in the world.”

Stark starts to turn away, hand slipping along the door frame like he expects to find a mezuzah, or absolution, there.

“I didn’t know you then, either, you know?” Peter rushes to say. “I didn’t know just how much  _more than smart_  you are. How kind and how good and-” he cuts himself off before he gives too much away.

“Good night, sweetheart,” the older man says gently, letting him off the hook, and then he heads down the hallway.

“Good night, sir.”


End file.
